


Sangoire

by saltandbyrne



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, BDSM, Bloodplay, Bondage, Claws, Dominant Erica, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gags, Kushiel's Legacy Fusion, Masochism, Nipple Clamps, Painplay, Riding Crops, Sadism, Scratching, Spanking, Submissive Allison, Tattoos, Vaginal Fisting, Werewolf Erica, Xeno Overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison was born to walk the razor's edge between pleasure and pain.  Erica's claws are sharp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sangoire

**Author's Note:**

> I've marked this dub-con because of the patron/client relationship between Erica and Allison, but both parties are willing and eager. This is a Kushiel's Legacy fusion. I've played fast and loose with the world, so I don't think you need to know much about it to follow along.
> 
> This was supposed to be my contribution to Femslash February, which somehow turned into late March. It's never too late for flowery lesbian werewolf BDSM porn, right?

 

 

  

Allison fights to keep her eyes open as the needles tap against her skin.

 

“I don't know why you bring me along on these trips, Allison.” Lydia sighs and tilts her head. “I'd be embarrassed for you if I still possessed the emotion.”

 

“At least she doesn't try to elbow me in the ribs when I hit a sensitive spot.” Stiles looks up and drags the back of his hand across his forehead, his marquist's tool glinting in the bright lantern light.

 

“My father always said anguissettes are worse than criers or bleeders.” He wipes his cloth across Allison's skin, smoothing away any stray ink from the intricate design that worked itself halfway up Allison's back. “But I'll take a writher any day.”

 

“You're skilled at your art, Stilinski.” Allison lets out a long breath and wriggles her hips from side to side, bracing herself for the next strike of the marquist's needles against her skin. Her eyes flutter at the first tap, each needle pricking her flesh and sending a wave of pleasure through her. She grinds her pelvis against the padded table before she can stop herself.

 

“Like a cat in heat,” Lydia mutters fondly, leaning back in her chair.

 

“Makes no difference to me.” Stiles arches an eyebrow and makes another expert strike with his tool. “You are a prize of Terre D'Ange, Allison, but even _your_ endless charms are lost on me.”

 

“We all know you'd be happier if she was grinding a cock against your table, Stiles.” Lydia smiles serenely as Allison huffs in mock-surprise. Lydia radiated the sophisticated elegance of House Dahlia from every pore. Allison always found it pleasing to hear her speak so coarsely.

 

“I'm just glad to be done with the thing.” Lydia shifts in her seat, and Allison can envision the lush purple flowers of Lydia's marque moving over her back.

 

Lydia had made history when she'd earned her marque after three days with Peter Hale, and earned it she had. Years later and even Allison, Lydia's ward-sister and closest friend, only knew the sketchiest details of what had transpired. But Lydia had emerged stronger than ever, sitting for Stiles' needles even as the bruises on her body blossomed into a hateful purple to rival the ink of her marque. _Upright_ _and_ _Unbending_ were the words of House Dahlia, and no one had ever embodied them as perfectly as Lydia.

 

“I think I'll miss it,” Allison says dreamily, blinking her eyes and sighing. Touched by Kushiel's Dart at birth, Allison walks the razor's edge of pain and pleasure like a dance. Her gift isn't always easy to bear, but as the marquist's needles prick her into a dreamy languor, Allison says a small prayer of thanks to Elua.

 

“I have missed you as well, sister.” Allison carefully folds her arm beneath her, resting her cheek against the crook of her elbow to get a better look at her friend. Lydia smiles indulgently and pushes a stray lock of hair back from Allison's face.

 

“And I you.” She smiles, small and private as she leans closer, a pale eyebrow arching up. “I've been occupied.”

 

“That blonde thing that keeps offering you his estate?”

 

“I own jewelry worth more than the Whittemore holdings.” Lydia rolls her eyes before casting them down at Allison, blinking them coyly. This coquettish hauteur is part of House Dahlia's canon, but where it made her house sisters seem arrogant and snobbish, it fit Lydia like a custom-made glove.

 

“No, my dear, I've been whiling away my days with one of the new boys from the D'Hale party.”

 

“Now there's someone I wouldn't mind writhing around on my table,” Stiles cuts in, making a soft whistle through his teeth as he taps a quick row of lines beneath the curve of Allison's ribs.

 

“Derek Hale hasn't made an appearance at any of the Houses of the Night Court, not to my knowledge.” Allison doesn't need to add that her knowledge encompassed most of what was worth knowing in Terre D'Ange.

 

“Maybe he's just waiting for the right pale flower.” Lydia arches an eyebrow at Stiles, who pointedly ignores her to keep working on Allison's back.

 

“Is it the general, what's his name? Vern?” Allison hisses at the needles' sting across her rib and smiles dreamily. “He looks like a hearty thing.”

 

“Sadly, the Sir Boyd's tastes seem to run to the more brutal attentions of House Mandrake.” Lydia makes a moue of displeasure. “Shame, he does seem very … hale.”

 

Allison snickers at Lydia's bad pun.

 

“I've been visited every evening by one of his under-sergeants, Ethan. No house name but he seems to have plenty of money.”

 

“One of the twins?”

 

Lydia grins archly, her eyes alight. “Indeed.” She cocks her head to the side and sighs. “He's most … attentive.”

 

Allison smiles, happy that Lydia can pick and choose her clients. She wonders what it will be like, when her own marque reaches her neck and she's repaid the debt to the house that sheltered her.

 

“Sadly his brother seems disinclined to the charm of the female form.” Lydia raises an eyebrow at Stiles. “Maybe I should refer him to Master Stilinski.”

 

“You know I only serve Naamah.” Stiles shakes his head, a wry smile dancing on his lips. Allison knows he's turned down offers from foreign princes and merchants as rich as sultans. But just like Allison, he'd committed his life to the service of Naamah. His needles limned the flesh of her sacred attendants and none other.

 

“Is it true that they all take the bite?” Stiles wipes down a small patch on Allison's skin, the cloth cool against the heated trace of his work.

 

“It is.” Lydia steeples her fingers together and assumes a reverent look. “And Elua bless them all, that endurance doesn't end on the battlefield.”

 

“My grandfather had a book, an old marquist's tome for working with the Sons of the Beast.”

 

Just as Allison, a D'Angeline by birth, could trace her lineage back to Anael, angelic companion of Elua, so too could the D'Hales trace their roots to Talia, the great Wolf Mother. They say any who accept her bite willingly become her children, casting off their ancestors along with their human weakness.

 

“I've heard they can grown new limbs entire in the heat of battle.” Allison winces as Stiles drives a steady line of ink beneath her rib. “Surely their skin would reject a marque.”

 

“Precisely.” Stiles finishes his row and wipes softly over the twining vines climbing towards Allison's neck. “It's a bloody business, getting one of them to hold. The ink must be soaked in Wolfsbane and cured in the open air of a moonless night. And even then it will only hold on open flesh.”

 

“That sounds dreadful.” Lydia shakes her head. She'd endured her marque as a necessity for her freedom and nothing more. She never understood Allison's eager anticipation when a patron's gift enabled her to add a few precious inches.

 

“Indeed.” Stiles tosses his head, one of the nervous gestures that served as a counterpoint to his calm mien while he worked. “An apprentice marquist must spend decades under a master before he's even allowed to mix the ink. I've met a few who quit before they finished their apprenticeships. Couldn't get used to the smell of burning flesh.”

 

“It must be so painful, even for them,” Allison muses.

 

Stiles answers with a final strike of his bundled needles. “And not everyone finds the joy in it like you, my anguissette.”

 

He lays his tools aside and cleans Allison's skin with a cool, soothing balm.

 

“Until next time.” Stiles presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, doing the same to Lydia before shooing them out so he can clean up.

 

Allison dresses quickly in her simple gown. She'd take the time to admire Stiles' handiwork when she was home and in the privacy of her own chamber.

 

Lydia's coach waits outside, the dark sheen of the mahogany paneling shining in the midday sun. They settle inside amidst the rich purple upholstery as Lydia's guards take their stations on the small platforms along the rear. Glass stained the lightest shades of Lydia's house flower shields them from the sun, casting a soft glow over Lydia's face as she smiles at her friend.

 

“And what has been keeping you busy, my lamb?” Lydia settles her head back against the cushions, relaxing her posture for once. Allison smiles softly at the old nickname, a play on anguissette and the old Tiberian word for a newborn sheep.

 

“Oh, the same old wolves. And then-” Allison arches an eyebrow and sighs as the coach shifts, pressing her newly-inked flesh against the padded bench. She lets the sensation wash over her, lowering her eyelids as Lydia watches her with the patience borne of a lifetime of friendship.

 

She's gone for a minute, maybe more, while Lydia smiles with bemusement. The road steadies again and Allison blinks lazily.

 

“And then?” Lydia prods, nudging her small foot against Allison's ankle.

 

“I have a new assignation, two nights hence.” Allison gazes out the window, watching the colorful byways of the Night's Keep pass them by. She tries to remain mysterious and fails miserably as Lydia kicks at her shin.

 

“Don't ply your spy-mistress secrets here.” Lydia leans across the small divide to grab Allison's hands, her eyes alight. If Allison didn't know how truly Lydia loved her, she would worry that her best friend only kept her around to gather gossip.

 

“This is purely for business, sister.” Many of Allison's well-chosen clients bore more than an inclination to cruelty. Even the smallest secret, whispered against broken skin or a tear-streaked face, could serve Allison's master. These precious threads of information, a muttered name or a promise, could be woven into the churning tapestry of information that Deaton pulled from all of his pupils.

 

But sometimes Allison served Naamah with no ulterior motive greater than her pleasure, and her newest client promised to be one such.

 

“She is one of the D'Hale guard.” Allison grasps Lydia's hands, leaning in closer. “Erica no Reyes.”

 

Lydia's eyes widen.

 

“They say she's stronger than a Skaldi pack-horse and breaks men's backs over her knee.” Lydia releases her hold on Allison's hands. “I heard she clawed a man's eyes out for looking at her for too long.”

 

Allison huffs and looks back at the window, letting the sun slant over her face as they climb the hill to the Houses of the Night Court.

 

“Well, I've heard stories that I've lost my fingers and grown them back. You know the truth is rarely so fantastic.”

 

Lydia tilts her head, half a smile on her lips. It's a look familiar to Allison, that for all the love between them there are things that Lydia will never truly understand. All the poetry in the world cannot describe the blessed sting of Kushiel's lash.

 

“No, it's often worse, isn't it?” Lydia straightens in her seat as they approach the sweeping entrance to House Dahlia. “Be careful, sister.”

 

Allison can't repress the shudder of excitement that runs through her as Lydia's coach pulls away to bring her back home.

 

*

Allison is surprised when Erica summons her to a rented suite of rooms. Clients from far and wide sought Allison's services, but most of them chose to meet her in the lavishly-appointed pleasure rooms of House Valerian or Mandrake. Kushiel's art needs no more embellishment than a willing hand, but most of her clients valued the atmosphere and accessories of a place made expressly for the purpose.

 

Erica is already proving to be different.

 

The contract negotiations hadn't raised any special requests or interests. Allison was free to dress as she liked with one clear exception: no silver.

 

Allison picks a plain dress that clings across her hips and dips low between her breasts. It sweeps the floor behind her, all the more noticeable for the pure, snowy white of the fabric. Cream-colored satin ribbons lace over her shoulders, holding the dress up like a dare for impatient fingers.

 

Foregoing all jewelry, she ties her hair back in a simple black net and drapes her red cloak over her shoulders. _Sangoire_ , the sacred red dye saved for those marked with Kushiel's bloody mark. None had worn it for generations and Allison regards her reflection with muted pride. It's always suited her.

 

She bids Deaton farewell and smiles at the mute guard who guides her to her coach. The simple moon and stars of Deaton's crest gleam subtly on the doors.

 

Erica's quarters are set back in a quiet street lined with date trees and wrought-iron torcheres. Allison and her guard are met at the door by a sloe-eyed boy with unruly hair and a secret smile on his lips. Through halls decorated with tasteful oils of landscapes and pastoral tapestries, he leads them to a small receiving room. The furniture is lavish without being loud, the sort of thing chosen to make well-heeled travelers feel more at home.

 

“Well, you're as pretty as they say, I'll give you that.” Allison looks up slowly, sure to let her eyelashes sweep up as she sets her gaze on her patron for the evening. In this room of borrowed finery and understated taste, Erica no Reyes could not fit in less.

 

“My lady.” Allison rises and falls in the practiced gesture of the Night Court, sinking to her knees and clasping her hands, _abeyante_. All her years of training have given Allison the grace and comportment to rival any servant of Naamah, but Allison knows it is the spark of Kushiel in her that tells her just what her patrons will crave. While some would want her to keep her eyes cast down and her neck bent in supplication, Allison follows her instincts and sneaks a glance up at Erica, breaking form and making eye contact with her patron.

 

Erica's eyes gleam with delight.

 

Waves of blond hair fall over her shoulders, bound in loose braids like the Skaldi women after whom Erica clearly models herself. She's far too beautiful to be anything but D'Angeline, although years of battle have etched something fiercer into her face and the sure, steady posture of her shoulders. She's clad in a pair of riding breeches and a sharp jacket, nipping in her waist and amplifying the sort of bosom men sing drunken songs about. Riding boots lace up to her thighs and cinch tight over her pants, the laces dangling down the backs of her knees. She looks rough and Allison shivers, knowing that she'll feel that leather against her skin before the night is done.

 

She pulls Allison to her feet with a soft touch under the chin, and Allison is surprised to find that they're of a height. Her eyes are the color of honey, with flecks of gold that seem to swim as she arches an eyebrow.

 

“I'm sure my boy can see to anything your sentry needs.” She dismisses both servants with a flick of her chin. Allison's guard will wait the night and see the dawn if necessary. Not that Allison needs the protection. She's perfectly capable of defending herself, and her _signale_ is clearly stated in the contract Erica has already signed. To hold Allison against her will or push her after she's called the _signale_ would be the greatest offense against Naamah, the sort of blasphemy that would blacken a soul for life.

 

She follows Erica into the bedchamber. The room bears the same understated décor as the rest of the house, with a small vanity table nestled in one corner. Erica sits down on the padded bench and shakes her hair over her shoulders.

 

“Put my hair up.”

 

This is hardly what Allison had expected, although it would take a far greater surprise to make Allison lose her composure. She stands behind Erica and picks up an ivory-handled hairbrush, running her thumb along the fine boar-bristles. Erica's hair is thick and strong, with natural waves that soften under Allison's brushing. Erica hums as Allison starts to plait her hair.

 

“Have you ever been with a wolf before?”

 

Allison keeps her hand from faltering as she tucks the end of Erica's braid into a fine pin. Erica watches her closely in the mirror, her lips pursed into a pretty bow.

 

“No, my lady.” Allison does let her voice waver, however, trusting her instinct that Erica will savor her trepidation. The flash in Erica's eyes gives her confirmation and makes Allison's skin flush.

 

Allison has learned to dole out her firsts with great care. A patron would go to great lengths and even greater expense to be the first with Allison. “I have never” were perhaps three of the most prized words she could say to a patron, as though they would always be part of her when they parted her from some virgin territory.

 

Erica will be her first wolf, and Allison is glad to bestow this first on her.

 

“I've heard the bite makes one insatiable,” Allison ventures quietly, letting her fingers trail down Erica's neck to brush against the leather of her collar. Erica catches her gaze in the mirror and raises an eyebrow, letting Allison's question hang in the air.

 

“This will do.” Erica turns her head to study her hair in the mirror. The blaze of candles catches in her eyes, leaving a trail of burnished copper before she blinks.

 

Erica rises and shakes her head lazily, like she's daring Allison's work to come undone. It holds just fine.

 

Erica leaves Allison standing before the mirror. Allison can wait patiently when she needs to, but tonight she watches Erica in the mirror. She doesn't know Erica well enough to determine if Erica knows she's being watched, or if she always moves like she has a captive audience. Allison would guess the latter.

 

The brass-bound camp trunk opens with a soft sigh of metal. Erica takes her time rummaging around in it, letting Allison hear the soft clank of metal before she pulls out a smartly-coiled length of hemp rope.

 

“Take off your dress.”

 

Allison turns, peering up at Erica from under her eyelashes. She slowly frees the laces at her shoulder, letting the satin ribbon run through her fingers before it flutters to the floor. She catches the falling strip of fabric in the crook of her elbow, holding her dress over her breasts as she undoes the other shoulder. It makes for a better effect when Allison lets the final ribbon trail to the floor.

 

Her dress slides down with a soft caress and pools at her feet. The room is cool and Allison's nipples tingle into peaks as Erica looks her over.

 

The rope rests easy in Erica's hands, and she keeps her eyes fixed on Allison as she slides the coils free.

Her fingers move with the ease of experience and Allison savors the prickle of excitement that runs through her. Kushiel had made her an instrument for pleasure, and like any finely-wrought thing Allison craved a master's touch.

 

“Come here.” Erica beckons her over, her gaze never leaving Allison as she begins to cinch the rope into a neat hitch. Allison carefully steps out of her silk mules and treads over to Erica, nude except for the fine net holding her hair back.

 

Erica gives her an appraising look as she starts to swing the rope in small circles. Suddenly she looks up and tosses the knotted end of the rope towards the ceiling. The cinch sails over a beam before falling back into Erica's waiting hands.

 

Allison can feel warmth bleeding from Erica's body as she presses in close. She resists the urge to arch into it, to mold herself to the animal heat that she knows she'll be begging for before the night is through. Instead she stands tall as Erica brings her hands together, grasping them firmly before wrapping the rope around her wrists.

 

Allison's eyes flutter closed as the familiar sparks dance over her skin. The rope tugs against her skin as Erica pulls her hands up, and Allison doesn't need to test them to know they'll bear her weight. Every slow inch that runs through Erica's hands caresses Allison with her confidence, the blazing mastery of one of Kushiel's chosen.

 

Her body arches up like a prayer, hands stretched about her head as her muscles relax into supplication. The firmer her bonds, the greater her freedom to let go and let the ancient magic of Naamah sing in her veins. Her chin falls to her chest as she sighs.

 

Erica's fingers trace over Allison's marque, following the nascent blooms that stretch to flower one day beneath her shoulder blades. Erica's breath curls against Allison's neck as Erica presses against her.

 

“I could no more serve Naamah than you could lead an army into battle,” Erica muses, her lips a promise away from Allison's skin. “But I was always jealous of your marques.”

 

Erica's hand veers from its path up Allison's spine to run over the curve of her ribs. She plants her palm firmly between Allison's breasts, making Allison yearn for the delicate scrape of fingers over her nipples.

 

“So beautiful,” Erica sighs, referring to Allison herself or the marque that signals her station, Allison isn't sure. She doesn't need to know, falling already as Erica's free hand plucks the jet pins from Allison's netted hair. They hit the floor with a hollow ping, followed quickly by the soft clack of the net itself. Allison's hair tumbles free.

 

“Beautiful, and all mine tonight.” Erica runs her fingers up the nape of Allison's neck, and Allison presses her lips together at the shock of sensation as Erica grips her hair. One sharp tug jerks her head back, making her cry out as Erica smiles against her neck.

 

“And you're going to be so good for me.”

 

Allison bites her lip as Erica runs her mouth across the arch of her neck, closing her lips over Allison's fluttering pulse-point. The warm weight of Erica's hand against her chest releases as Erica flicks her thumb over Allison's nipple. Allison moans, her hips moving back against Erica of their own accord.

 

“Patience, pretty one.” Erica gives her nipple a searing pinch before releasing Allison's hair.

 

“I've got you all night.” Erica saunters back to her trunk, bending at the waist and pursing her lips as she searches for something. Allison's skin tingles with anticipation, heat flooding between her legs as Erica brings a pair of chained clamps to dangle from one finger.

 

The metal sears cold against Allison's skin as Erica drags the pinched edge of the clamp along Allison's nipples. They're hard with excitement and she groans as Erica rolls each one between her fingers.

 

Allison lets herself cry out as they clamp down on her sensitive flesh, cold and cruel. The delicate chain connecting them hangs bow-curved between her breasts, rising and falling with each breath she takes.

 

Allison has never been one to over-indulge in spirits, not from any sense of propriety but rather that nothing can compare to the heady rush of yielding herself entirely to another. Her head swims, the candlelight dancing in front of her eyes as she adjusts to the relentless pressure.

 

She blinks her eyes and finds Erica before her, twisting a long strip of linen around her fingers. Erica's face is already picking up the high flush of arousal, her eyes glinting a dozen different colors as Allison dares to look up at her.

 

Erica smiles, a hungry showing of teeth that makes Allison tremble. Erica weaves the cloth around the chain that connects the clamps, centering it and circling it twice.

 

“Open your mouth.”

 

Erica holds the loose ends of the cloth in her hands. Allison's lips tremble as she parts them, quickly realizing the predicament Erica means to put her in. She lets her chin fall to her chest, and Erica clucks her tongue.

 

“You're a smart one, aren't you?”

 

There's no malice in it, not that any more is needed as Erica ties the makeshift gag behind Allison's head. The double-knotted wad of fabric wrapped around the chain stretches Allison's mouth open, the thin chain pressing against either side of her lower lip where it snakes back down to her clamps. With Allison's head lowered as far as it can go, they're just slack enough to give her a modicum of relief.

 

Her eyes on the floor, Allison wills herself to keep her head lowered, even as Erica stands before her. She itches with curiosity, taunted with unimpeded sight and the promise of searing pain if she looks up. Erica shifts her weight from foot to foot, and Allison can imagine her, arms crossed over her chest as she observes the anguissette in its natural habitat. It makes Allison wet and her cheeks flush with shame.

 

Time is a strange thing when Allison is bound like this, strung up and floating in the wake of her desire. It ebbs and flows at its own pace, and it could be mere minutes or an hour before she hears Erica toss something on the bed. Steeling herself, Allison looks up.

 

Erica's jacket lies in a heap atop the fine coverlet. Erica's bare arms flex as she plays with a worn riding crop, the sort of thing made to spur a recalcitrant warhorse, not the flimsy toys stocked in most pleasure chambers. It's not the instrument in Erica's sure hands that fixes Allison's gaze.

 

“Told you I was jealous.”

 

Allison's body screams at the harsh pull on her nipples, but Allison can't look away from the swirls of blue and green that circle Erica's arms. Allison has traveled enough to see the marquist's ink used for other purposes than denoting a servant of Naamah, but never like this. Erica looks like a storybook fantasy of one of the Alban warrior queens. She's beautiful and savage and Allison feels her cunt throb with need.

 

For most of Allison's patrons, pain is a blunt instrument used to crude ends. There are many ways to serve Naamah, and Allison did her service with an open heart. Her pain was a pleasure to Naamah, her offering to Blessed Elua, and even these crude sacraments were holy. It is only those who have experienced the transformation from pain to release who can know how to wield it, how to shape it and hone it until everything is eclipsed by the pure white of Kushiel's forgiveness.

 

Allison thinks of burning flesh and bends to the wolf.

 

Erica strikes her, hard and fast across the backs of her thighs. Allison's head jerks up reflexively, sending arcs of searing pain across her breasts and making her dizzy. Allison rubs the pad of her thumb over the secure knots holding her up and sighs as the crop sings through the air.

 

Erica works her over until Allison is nothing but heat, coursing through her and wrapping around her like a second skin. She strikes at the curve of Allison's backside with measured precision just to follow it with a harsh, open slap of her hand. She coaxes Allison's legs apart to stripe the tender skin of her inner thighs and marvel at the wetness between her legs, tasting her even as she twists freshly-stung skin between her fingers.

 

“You are what they say.” Erica molds herself to Allison's back, her leathers cool against Allison's heated flesh. She grazes her lips over Allison's neck as she parts the folds of Allison's swollen cunt and presses cruelly against her throbbing pleasure, the Pearl of Naamah. “I can smell your bliss.”

 

Erica's voice is thick, filtering oddly through the white haze buzzing in Allison's ears. She goes taut as she feels a sharp drag beneath the curve of her jaw. _Fangs_.

 

Allison looks down, her lips trembling against her gag as she sees the sharp claws curving out of Erica's fingers. Erica presses harder on Allison's pearl, rubbing her finger in small circles as Allison barely breathes. Erica's claw is a hairsbreadth away from Allison's entrance.

 

She's so enraptured by the sight of it that Erica's claw against her lips catches her by surprise. Allison moans, writhing as much as she dares against Erica's hand as a claw-tip pierces her lip. It's finer than one of the pulse needles of the Ch'in doctors, parting her flesh and leaving the faintest prick of blood behind as she drags it down Allison's neck.

 

Snaking her finger underneath the chain, Erica taps against the swollen, red bud of Allison's nipple.

 

“You're going to come for me.” Erica slides a second finger into Allison's folds, rolling the aching pleasure of Allison's pearl between her fingers, claws ghosting over her outer lips. Allison shakes, her muscles tensing erratically.

 

“Now.” Erica drags her claw across Allison's breast, leaving a gossamer trail of blood behind it. Allison's vision clouds with the red surge of her orgasm as she shudders and praises Elua with the offering of her _petite mort_.

 

The night is a blur after that. Erica frees her from the ropes and carries her to the bed, spreading her out and marking her up until Allison has a second marque of scratches and fang-teased bruises painting her body. Erica shifts from wolf to woman, retracting her claws so Allison can come around her hand just to draw them out and tease them over the still-throbbing folds of her cunt. Allison floats in the twilight of her blessing, knowing nothing more than the beat of her own heart and the smell of Erica all around her.

 

And when Erica has had Allison in every way she can offer, she ends in blissful supplication with her face nestled against the arch of Erica's boots, adrift in sleep and the pure contentment of service.

 

*

 

“I think I'd look marvelous with claws.” Lydia picks up a madeleine and examines her fingers. Sunlight filters through the screens of Deaton's atrium, dancing patterns over Lydia's fair skin.

 

“I think we'd all be in trouble if you had claws.” Allison takes a sip of her tea and smiles. The air is warm and bright with the scent of summer's last blooms. She could just catch the hint of fall underneath.

 

Allison's body heals quickly, one of Kushiel's many gifts. It had taken a week for her skin to recover from Erica's attention, but the memory of their night together remained in Allison's mind a private, cherished memory. Even now, coming on a year since she had seen Erica, Allison still smiles when she thinks of her.

 

“Deaton says the border skirmishes with the Caerdicci have been quelled.” Allison sneaks a glance at Lydia, trying to remain elusive and failing utterly when Lydia gives her an arch look. They both know that the hero of their border troubles, one Duc D'Hale, will be returning to Terre D'Ange soon. With his retinue of warrior wolves in tow.

 

“Don't play the tease with me. You can't wait to see her.”

 

Allison blushes, looking down with feigned modesty at her tea.

 

“Well, I certainly won't object to divesting dear Ethan of some of his … attention.” Lydia sighs dramatically and fans herself, while Allison dissolves into laughter. What little she has, she loves, and Allison says a prayer of thanks to Elua as she and Lydia bathe in his light.

 

 


End file.
